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Every day is carnival for the cardinal


Every day is Carnival for the cardinal.

And the northern cardinal dresses best,

In sable mask and scarlet crest,

And redder than the cherry, plum and apple.

He paints the town in summer dapple,

He paints the woods when deep in snow—

No day can dim his festive glow,

And from the early morning rays

He fires in his round of praise,

Then through the brush and trees he winds

To taste of all the seeds he finds,

And always with his russet love

A branch below or branch above;

She’s never nearly as hearty

And sure ain’t the life of the party,

And seldom gives him any slack—

She tisks him and he tisks back;

Still I think without his one true mate

He’d have no heart to celebrate.


His common name would have him be

A prelate of the Holy See,

But I don’t see a confessor

In that sharply brilliant dresser,

And I suspect he’s never spent

Forty winks observing Lent,

And I expect he never will.

Good Friday finds him dressed to kill.

You and I would have a reason,

A chosen day, a certain season,

But winter, summer, spring and fall,

The cardinal’s decked out for them all.

Every day is Carnival for the cardinal.

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